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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248591">Robin Laid An Egg</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naphorism/pseuds/Naphorism'>Naphorism</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>dckinkmeme fills [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Sex, Alien/Human Relationships, Aliens, Attempt at Humor, Community: dckinkmeme, Consensual Underage Sex, Cravings, Damian Wayne Has Friends, Damian Wayne is So Done, Damian Wayne is a Brat, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Denial, Diplomacy, Ectopic Pregnancy, Eggpreg, Eggs, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, I see u damian, Implied Dick Grayson/Koriand'r - Freeform, Implied Jason Todd/Koriand'r, Implied Relationships, Kinda, Mentioned Bruce Wayne, Mentioned Dick Grayson, Mentioned Jason Todd, Mentioned Kon-El | Conner Kent, Mentioned Koriand’r, Mentioned Tim Drake, Morning Sickness, Nausea, Not Pictured, Objectification, Outer Space, Oviposition, Playboy Bruce Wayne, Politics, Spaceships, Teen Damian Wayne, Teen Jonathan Kent, Teen Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Xenophilia, Xenophobia, and its jon, but its aliens to humans, but not like you think, just one tho, to the nth degree lmao</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:35:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248591</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naphorism/pseuds/Naphorism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian and Jon discover the delights and horrors of alien politics and shared pregnancy. Someone really should have thought to include this in their sexual education, <em>Batman</em>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Kent &amp; Damian Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>dckinkmeme fills [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Robin Laid An Egg</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So. I've been working on this a while, because I thought it'd be one part. I made it to eight pages before going, "fuck it," and deciding it'd just have to be multichapter.</p><p>This dckinkmeme prompt is so, so good. <em>Bendis never happens and the Super Sons keep having their wild wacky high jinks adventures. Except puberty hits them hard while in space, and one or both of them (I prefer Damian) ends up sleeping with an alien princess whose species has shared pregnancy like pipe fish and sea horses on Earth.</em> (https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1454.html?thread=2284974)</p><p>Warning: no real spaceships were used in the making of this fic. Seriously. There is no precedent for the ship in this anywhere in any DC media. I just thought, “let’s make it the chaotic first apartment of two teenagers, but zooming through space.” There's no logic whatsoever. All my brainpower went into coming up with logistics for alien pregnancy.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome to part one of,,,, who knows.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I think you inherited some bad habits from your dad.” After a moment of clicking mindlessly through the ship’s navigation interface for the millionth time to see how far they have left to go until their own solar system, Jon adds, “Or possibly picked them up from your older brothers.”</p><p>Damian twitches in his seat. He pops an empty spoon out of his mouth — it was holding nearly half a jar’s worth of peanut butter when it went in ten seconds ago, and Jon is equal parts impressed and disgusted by how fast that got eaten — and asks, “What's that supposed to mean?” He clearly knows what point Jon is trying to make and, going by his tone of his voice, is deeply unhappy about it.</p><p>Regretting his decision to open his mouth in the first place, Jon admits, “Batman’s civilian identity is pretty well known for… I mean. Bruce Wayne, playboy, and all of that. And…” He trails off, shrinking back in the pilot’s seat minutely as he watches Damian’s scarred fist flex against the left armrest of the co-pilot’s seat.</p><p>“By all means, continue that train of thought,” Damian insists, eyes narrowed. He sets his used spoon down on the control panel with a clack. “I'm dying to know what you could possibly have to say about my older brothers when yours is, in fact, a thot.”</p><p>Jon splutters for a moment. “Nightwing and Red Hood have both dated Starfire! I’ve read the Justice League files on Tamaranean reproduction, and the report on that one incident—”</p><p>“We do not talk about that,” Damian says curtly, a pained look crossing his face. “Todd is an imbecile.”</p><p>Grinning at Damian, too amused to be properly afeared of his life, Jon offers, “Letting alien princesses stick things inside you makes you an <em>imbecile</em>, does it?” He smiles a little bigger as Damian’s eyes go wide with insult. “It’s good that you’ve gained self-awareness.”</p><p>Damian lunges at Jon. Once he’s on his feet, however, he stumbles. As usual, he has forgotten that all the combat training he’s ever received, as well as everything else he understands about how to use his body to his advantage, has gone out the window. Landing on his hands and knees with the smack of bare skin against metal, he glares up at Jon and hisses, “I despise having a shifted centre of gravity.”</p><p>“You need less force for momentum forward now, Dames. Remember.” Jon holds out a hand to help Damian up, which Damian swats away.</p><p>“I’m well aware, Kent.” Damian clambers to his feet with little grace, dusting off his tunic. He clears his throat uncomfortably as his hands brush across his stomach, well aware of Jon unsubtly staring at the bulge there. “She never put anything <em>in</em> me, for your information. She only—”</p><p>“Laid her eggs on the softest part your ventral surface,” Jon agrees, making a face. He then mumbles, “I still think you should’ve been suspicious when she bent you over and aimed your dick at your own stomach when you came.”</p><p>Damian’s face goes very red. “It was an interspecies liaison, so my actions represented all of humanity. I had to be courteous. She consented to human kissing for my sake despite having never seen anything like it before, so naturally I would do what she wanted me to. For all we know mixing fluids during copulation is a crucial cultural part of her species’ sexual relations! It was the gentlemanly thing to do. My only error was mistaking her ovipositor for a phallus.”</p><p>“You thought she jizzed mauve caviar?” Jon asks, shooting Damian a skeptical look. “There were red flags. Tons. Her feeling your stomach up the whole time? That had to be her having her species’ equivalent of a breeding kink.”</p><p>“Absolutely not. I have impressive abdominal muscles; surely you’ve noticed,” Damian sniffs, ignoring Jon’s jizz comment. “I noticed her fascination with my stomach and accepted it as a normal part of her species’ mating rituals. It would have been impolite to protest.”</p><p>“Yes, you did have abs,” Jon concedes awkwardly. “And I’m sure you were a very polite lover.”</p><p>Damian nods. “Thank you.” After a few beats of silence, he announces, “Anyway. We've been through this enough. You now understand that she never put anything inside of me.”</p><p>“You… Damian.” Jon clasps his hands together and looks up at Damian beseechingly. “You have skin covering the eggs. Your skin. She didn’t put anything inside you while you were having sex, but she did put something inside you. Somehow. She made it end up inside you.”</p><p>Damian’s jaw clenches visibly. “If you don't shut your mouth right now I will vomit all of the peanut butter I just ate directly onto your face, then proceed to kick you into the next dimension.” He grips the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut as though struck by a terrible headache, then adds, “I’m already nauseous constantly, Jon, please. Don't test my patience or the strength of my stomach.”</p><p>Glancing sideways at the clock on the dash, Jon offers, “Look, it’s already nineteen-hundred hours. We could call it a day. Leave the ship to overnight autopilot, go have some dinner?”</p><p>“Ridiculous,” Damian scoffs, crossing his arms much higher across his chest than he usually does in order to accommodate the growth of his stomach. “Just because we're on a return trip doesn’t mean we're not on duty. I would be out on patrol until at least six hours from now in Gotham.”</p><p>“Yeah, because there’d actually be things to do in Gotham.” Jon sighs, staring out at the dark expanse of space through the windscreen before him. “Right now we can’t do anything but wait for the JL to respond to our calls.”</p><p>“Don’t play with me, Kent,” Damian hisses, glaring at Jon. “You’re attempting to coddle me because you think I’m in a compromised state.”</p><p>Jon exclaims, “You’re pregnant, Damian!”</p><p>“I am not! I'm male, and completely incapable of pregnancy!” Damian insists. “Besides, I only slept with her four days ago. That's not long enough for this, if it were proof of gestation.” He gestures to his swollen stomach, which is easily the size of a full-term human pregnancy.</p><p>Jon knows. He Googled pictures of pregnancy stages when Damian first started showing the day after his hookup with the princess. It had taken a while for it to occur to Jon, since Damian refused to show his stomach, but as soon as he put the sordid details Damian had shared together with the evidence it had been clear that research was needed. He supposes he’s lucky that Damian, despite his quirks, has enough respect for the best friend code that he spilled everything as soon as he got back from the princess’ private chambers.</p><p>At length, Jon points out, “Not all species have the same pregnancy length as humans. Mom was pregnant with me for about a month and a half less than a normal human pregnancy.”</p><p>Damian just glares at Jon.</p><p>“Come on, man, please,” Jon begs. “I can make us some dinner and you can just put on sweatpants and a t-shirt and lie down for a while.”</p><p>Bristling, Damian says, “I see nothing wrong with my current attire,” haughtily, his nose nearly pointing at the ceiling.</p><p>Jon blinks at the bare skin of Damian’s legs between the bottom of his tunic and the top of his boots, prickled with goosebumps against the chill of the ship’s recycled air. “You’re not wearing pants. I know your uniform pants don’t fit, but you should wear pants with an elastic waist so you don’t freeze,” he suggests, bewildered at the new hill Damian has chosen to die on. It’s not as though Damian hasn’t already worn sweatpants whenever off-duty for the last three days.</p><p>Damian’s cheeks go somewhat pink, and he shifts awkwardly on his feet as he mumbles something incomprehensible.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“I said,” Damian repeats, glowering at the ground, “My sweatpants don’t fit comfortably over my stomach anymore.”</p><p>“Oh,” Jon breathes. “Alright. You can borrow mine. But you gotta let me look. You’re growing really fast, and we can do ultrasounds and other tests in the med-bay.” When Damian looks as though he’s about to protest, Jon holds out a hand to silence him. “I’m not saying you’re pregnant. I’m saying that even if this is a… I dunno, allergic reaction to alien bodily fluids? We still gotta make sure you’re okay; that we understand what’s going on.”</p><p>“I'll consider it,” Damian grumbles. “But I won't stand for it if you continue to treat me like an invalid. We must stay vigilant.”</p><p>Jon shoots Damian an unimpressed look. “Dinner isn’t just for when you’re feeling sick, Damian. We both need food if we wanna be at our best.” When Damian continues to glower, Jon goads, “We can eat ice cream and play Cheese Vikings 3D on the navigational screen afterward! You deserve a break.”</p><p>Looking a little less grouchy, Damian grumbles, “We're too old for Cheese Vikings.”</p><p>Jon grins. “Your brother is well into his twenties and still makes Kon play Pokémon games with him. Nostalgia is cool.”</p><p>“Nothing Drake does is <em>cool</em>,” insists Damian, but he’s almost smiling as he says it. “Fine. I acquiesce, but only because I can see the logic in resting when there’s nothing of consequence that needs to be done.”</p><p>“Slammin’!” Jon nods happily, leaping to his feet and marching for the cockpit’s exit with a spring in his step. “What can possibly happen when we’re surrounded by lightyears of empty space?”</p><p>Jon hears Damian grumble something about how cavalier he is, but Damian follows him out of the cockpit nonetheless. He turns off into their sleeping quarters as Jon turns into what passes as a kitchen and living room.</p><p>The bland grey couch, hulking industrial fridge, miniature sink, high-tech microwave designed for frozen food required for space travel, and two square feet of counter space with a single cupboard beneath are hardly inspiring. Despite how utilitarian it is, Jon thinks he and Damian have made it theirs. With Damian’s sketches stuck to the fridge, a red and yellow blanket over the back of the couch, MarioKart 8 paused on the navigation screen they’re only meant to use for tactical purposes, and colourful plastic cutlery and plates in the cupboard? It’s like home.</p><p>It feels like mere moments before Damian is walking in and collapsing onto the couch wearing his domino mask as usual, a huge t-shirt — emblazoned with the name of a French art school where Bruce paid for him to do what they refer to as a <em>stage</em>, but Jon is pretty sure counted as summer camp — and a pair of Jon’s sweatpants. He’s always been inhumanly fast at getting dressed thanks to his bat-level efficiency. Throwing an arm over his eyes with gravitas, he announces, “I need cheese and potato pierogies.”</p><p>“Okay.” Jon tears open the freezer and starts rifling through its contents. “I think we have some frozen ones. I dunno about sour cream th—”</p><p>A distinct retching noise comes from behind Jon, and before he knows it Damian is shoving him aside so he can spit bile into the tiny sink. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, takes a shaky breath, then insists, “No. Not… that.”</p><p>“Ohh-kay,” Jon singsongs, extricating the frozen pierogies from between a package of frozen peas and a couple dozen vacuum-packed bags of ice cream in every flavour imaginable. “You need some food groups other than pure starch, though.”</p><p>Damian grabs the peas and shoves them into Jon’s chest. “And mayonnaise,” he says, then turns and walks back to the couch.</p><p>“And… what?” Jon asks, arms stalling with the pierogi and pea packets halfway to the countertop. “Why?”</p><p>Damian, most of his attention focussed on wrapping their throw blanket around himself in the perfect cape-like manner, says, “To dip pierogies in,” idly. He tucks a corner of the blanket underneath his leg with dignity to keep it in place, then reaches up to start pulling his hair back like he didn’t just say the wackiest thing Jon has ever heard.</p><p>Gaping, Jon splutters wordlessly. He eventually manages to exclaim a weak, “Mayonnaise!”</p><p>“Indeed,” Damian agrees, settling back against the cushions as though sitting on a sumptuous throne. “And do we still have packets of Taco Bell fire hot sauce in the refrigerator?”</p><p>Jon nods mutely then sets to work microwaving their space peas, following the directions on the back of the package to the letter. The bag was only a two-person serving, so with the efficiency of a Justice League-approved microwave on his side he’s dividing the peas into two bowls and handing the slightly larger serving to Damian in no time at all.</p><p>“The fire sauce, Kent,” Damian demands as he pokes at the bowl of peas in his lap with his hot pink plastic spoon.</p><p>“For someone who claims not to be pregnant, you’re sure high maintenance,” Jon accuses good-naturedly, grabbing a handful of the shocking number of Taco Bell fire hot sauce packets nestled on a shelf in the fridge’s door and throwing them at Damian with precision.</p><p>Jon turns back to the microwave and the waiting pierogies as Damian glowers at his back only to stop in his tracks. Usually he and Damian would each have eight pierogies, but with the way Damian has been eating lately Jon isn’t at all certain that will be enough.</p><p>Seemingly sensing Jon’s internal trepidation, Damian looks up from squeezing his final packet of fire sauce onto the peas to watch Jon. Looking Jon dead in the eyes, he orders, “Cook them all.”</p><p>Jon blinks at Damian. “There are fifty in the bag.”</p><p>Damian blinks back. “Did I stutter?”</p><p>Not looking away from Damian, Jon tears open the plastic and upends the entire bag into an enormous microwave-safe bowl. The pierogies, still frozen completely solid, are thunderous as they clang against the pyrex.</p><p>Nodding, satisfied, Damian lets his eyes fall shut and burrows deeper into the blanket around his shoulders.</p><p>At this exact moment, because Jon’s life is a Damian-wrangling nightmare, a pinging noise goes off throughout the ship. The pinging noise that means they are being hailed by another ship. The only things that stop Damian from rushing straight to the cockpit are how abysmally tangled he is with the blanket and the bowl of mushy peas perched precariously in his lap.</p><p>Jon pushes Damian’s shoulder back into the cushions as he walks past him on his way to the door. “Someone needs to finish making dinner. The directions for the pierogies are on the back of the bag. I believe in you!”</p><p>Damian scowls, but Jon has years of practice ignoring that.</p><p>“Don’t you dare try to respond from the navigation screen in there!” Jon hollers over his shoulder as he enters the cockpit. As an afterthought he adds, “It’d be wildly unprofessional when you’re out of uniform and in our living quarters,” because that’s the kind of order Damian might actually listen to.</p><p>Sitting down in the pilot’s chair and facing the call displayed on the main screen of the dashboard, Jon doesn’t see anything familiar. It says <em>INCOMING</em>, as it always does when the ship is being hailed, but what follows is a string of characters that are foreign to him. Already calculating how to get away from the ship without Damian noticing in order to help if this is is a distress call, Jon hits <em>accept</em>.</p><p>Oddly, the video connection remains blank as the audio flares to life. “<em>Attitude-2</em>, this is,” the speakers spit out a word with no meaning to Jon, as they always do when faced with an untranslatable word. The other ship’s name. “<em>Attitude-2</em> do you read?”</p><p>“This is Superboy aboard <em>Attitude-2</em>. I copy you.”</p><p>The person on the other end of the line suddenly turns on their video, revealing a member of the dominant species on the planet Jon and Damian hightailed it away from nearly five Earth days ago. But the silver tattoos across the pectoral fins on either side of this person’s head mark them as a member of a xenophobic separatist group, prone to committing violent crimes against innocents in an attempt to scare their peaceful government out of interplanetary and interspecies relations of any kind. In other news: they really hate the Justice League.</p><p>Jon has a feeling this person is not here to bring him the socks he left behind.</p><p>“Superboy of <em>Attitude-2</em>, are you aware that you are carrying extremely valuable cargo?” they ask, seeming amused. “One might even say harbouring.”</p><p>“We actually don’t have a cargo hold onboard,” Jon informs them politely.</p><p>They let out the clicking noise that means laughter in their species. “There are things more valuable than material wealth, Superboy of <em>Attitude-2</em>. Things such as power. More specifically: bargaining power.”</p><p>Though Jon isn’t sure where the conversation is going, he is very sure that he won’t like wherever it ends up. He clears his throat and apologises, “I’m afraid we don’t have anything valuable in that way aboard, either.”</p><p>“But I am afraid you do,” the say, expression going dark. “The princess’ conquest. Give us her brooder, or we blow you to bits.”</p><p>“Her whatnow?” Jon asks, fully aware that no translation software will comprehend <em>whatnow</em>, and not particularly caring. He’s sure they will understand the gist.</p><p>Scowling, they repeat, “Brooder. He should be quite fat with eggs by now. Unless the princess greatly exaggerated the success of her fifth courtship of the season.” They narrow their eyes at Jon. “It can’t be you, can it? I cannot tell humans apart.”</p><p>Heart sunk so low that it’s practically in his feet, Jon stands and spins slowly so they can see that he isn’t <em>fat with eggs</em>. Damian is so screwed. Sitting back down with a thud, he announces, “No brooders here, whatever that means. Sorry.”</p><p>“Then it is your friend. The darker one, with the pointy weapons. He is the son of the Bat. That one looks different. Smaller, more stuff on his head.”</p><p>Trying not to laugh hysterically at hair being described as <em>stuff on his head</em>, Jon clears his throat. His mouth is feeling uncomfortably dry. “Even if this brooder were aboard, what could you possibly want from him?”</p><p>“If the brooder is in our hands, then the fry are in our hands. Though they will be tainted half-breeds, they still have royal blood.” They bare their teeth in a predatory grin. “The queen will have to pay close attention to us if we have her own blood under our thumb. Especially since these will be the first royals of mixed blood; and mixed with a prince of the Justice League, no less! So I tell you once more: give us the brooder, or we open fire.”</p><p>“But if he were on this ship,” Jon starts, trailing off. He knows that pretending the princess’ pregnant — eggnant? — conquest isn’t aboard the <em>Attitude-2</em> is pointless at this point, but he’s clinging to it like a security blanket anyway. “If he were here and you destroyed us, you’d lose your bargaining chip.”</p><p>“If those eggs are permitted to hatch and the brooder gives birth, the fry will be a symbol of hope. A shining example of the so-called beauty of interspecies relations. That cannot be allowed to happen.” They shoot Jon a shockingly polite smile. “If we cannot have them, no one can. You understand.”</p><p>“No!” Jon exclaims, certain that he is well past the point at which anyone could reasonably expect a teenager to keep their cool. Even if said teenager is a highly-trained, highly-experienced, superpowered vigilante. “I definitely do not under—”</p><p>With the deafening crackle of microphones being destroyed, the video cuts out. When Jon switches to the rearview cameras on the main screen and zooms in considerably, he can see miscellaneous debris floating in the near distance.</p><p>Someone has blown up the other ship.</p><p>Jon isn’t complaining. In a case of be blown up versus watch the people threatening to blow you up get blown up he will always take the latter, despite his moral objections to the general act of blowing people up. But he is more than a little bit scared by the prospect of the mysterious attacker, so he sets a proximity alert — so that an alarm will go off if another spacecraft gets within attacking range of the <em>Attitude-2</em> — before he walks back to the kitchen.</p><p>Damian is perched on the couch, eating underdone pierogies with globs of mayonnaise. “That was an explosion,” he says, and it’s not a question.</p><p>“We’re being hunted,” agrees Jon. He doesn’t bother to ask how Damian knows it was an explosion — Batman probably trained him to know what every possible kind of microphone destruction sounds like from two rooms away.</p><p>“Delightful,” Damian drawls. On his next pierogi he forgoes the formality of using his spoon to scoop up a dollop of mayo, electing to dunk the pierogi directly into the jar instead. Licking his fingers in a manner reminiscent of a cat, he asks, “What’s the supposed reason this time?”</p><p>“You’re carrying an alien princess’ eggs, Damian,” Jon explains, suddenly exhausted. “A terrorist group wants you so they can hold the babies over the royal family’s head. And if they can’t have you, no one can.”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Damian insists, then shovels an enormous spoonful of straight mayonnaise into his mouth. “We've been over this: it’s not possible for me to be pregnant. I don't know what’s going on inside your half-Kryptonian pants, but humans who are assigned male at birth can't carry children.”</p><p>“They’re eggs. You’re not pregnant like a human normally is.” Jon sighs. “Just finish your pierogies, then we’ll do an ultrasound.” He ignores Damian’s scowl in order to wander over to his own unfinished bowl of peas, which have now gone completely cold.</p><p>Damian grumbles around the whole pierogi he has just shoved into his mouth, then swallows it with an obnoxious gulp. “Fine. But I simply agree that conducting tests is a logical course of action because we require more information. Don't read this as me agreeing that I’m pregnant, because I'm not.”</p><p>“Course,” Jon agrees with a fond smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I pretend DC lets Jon have a terrible older brother figure in Kon because it's good for my mental health. I also saw someone draw a comic of Jon using stupid 90s Superboy slang one time and it's clung to my psyche ever since, so. I force it on everyone &gt;:)</p><p>Also yes teenage Damian has long hair. It's Injustice hours.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kudos and comments are always appreciated! My kudos go to the prompter. I love getting unnecessarily invested in fictional biology, and you enabled me.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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